Mission Commander Miguel Cruz called off operations for two full shifts. The setup crew had been working to the hilt for a week. Two deaths in one day implied that they were making errors from plain fatigue.
Umolanda's accident had spewed forth a pearly fog for an hour as the inner lake of slush boiled out. Had anyone Earthside been watching through a strong telescope, they could have detected a slight brightening at the cometary head. It was a fleeting memorial. The blinding storm had driven her mechs out into the shaft, dislodged enough ice to bury her. Carl and the others were kept outside until it was too late to recover her and freeze her down slowly for possible medical work. Umolanda was lost.
Carl came up on the last ferry. The mottled surface seemed to darken with distance: the cometary nucleus dwindled to a blackish dot swimming in a luminous orange-yellow cloud. Though the fuzzy haze of the coma was still visible with a small telescope from Earth, from near the head itself the shimmering curtains of ions were lacy, scarcely noticeable. Gas and grains of dust still steadily popped free of Halley's surface, making cargo piloting tricky. Most of the outgassing now came not from the sun's ebbing sting, but from the waste heat of humans.
As the ferry pulled outward the twin tails -- one of dust and the other of fluorescing ions -- stretched away, foreshortened pale remnants of the glories that had enthralled Earth only two months ago. Ragged streamers forked out toward Jupiter's glowing pinpoint. Oblivious, Carl stretched back and dozed while the ferry rose to meet the Edmund.
When they clanged into the lock, he peeled off his suit and coasted toward the murmuring gravity wheel at the bow. He climbed down one of the spoke ladders and stumbled out into the unfamiliar tug of one-eighth G, feeling bone-deep weariness descend with the coming of weight.
Sleep, yes, he thought. Let it knit up whatever raveled sleeve he had left.
Virginia came first, though. He hadn't seen her in ages.
She was in her working module, of course, halfway around the wheel. She seldom left the thing nowadays. The door hissed aside. When he slipped into the spherical world of encasing memory shells there was an almost cathedral-like hush, a sense of presence and humming activity just beyond hearing. He sat down quietly next to her cantilevered chair, waiting until she could extract from interactive mode. Tapped into channels through a direct neural link and wrist servos, she scarcely moved. She had to know he was there, but she gave no sign.
Her slim body occasionally fidgeted and jerked. Like a dog dreaming, he thought, and trying to run after imaginary rabbits.
Her long, half-Polynesian features were pointed toward the banks of holographic displays suspended above her, and her eyes never even flicked to the side to see him. She gazed raptly at multiple scenes of movement, sliding masses of ever-flickering data, geometric diagrams that shifted and evolved, telling new tales.
He waited as she worked through some indecipherable problem. Her long face momentarily tightened, then released as she leaped some hurdle. She had delicate, high cheekbones, too, like Umolanda. Like a third of the expedition's crew, the Percells, products of Simon Percell's program in genetic correcting of inherited diseases. Carl wondered idly if fineboned, aristocratic features were traits the DNA wizard had slipped in. It was possible; the man had been a genius. Carl's own face was broad and ordinary, though, and he had been "developed," as the antiseptic jargon had it, within a year of Virginia. So maybe Simon Percell had taken such care only with the women. Given the gaudy stories told about the man, he couldn't rule out the possibility.
By anyone's definition, Virginia Kaninamanu Herbert was clearly a successful experiment. A Hawaiian mixture of Pacific breeds, she had a swift, quirky intelligence, deliciously unpredictable. There was restless energy to her eyes as they moved in quick, darting glances at the myriad welter before her. Below, her mouth was a study in quiet immersion, slightly pursed, thoughtful and pensive. She was not, he supposed, particularly attractive in the usual sense of the term; her long face gave her a rangy look. The serene almond smoothness of her skin offset this, but her forehead was broad, the mouth too ample, her chin was stubbed and not fulsomely rounded as fashion these days demanded.
Carl didn't give a damn. There was a compressed verve in her, a hidden woman he longed to reach. Yet all the time he'd known her she had stayed inside her polite cocoon. She was friendly but little more. He was determined to change that.
On the main screen, obliquely turned girders filled together in precise sockets. The frame froze. Done.
Abruptly Virginia came alive, as though some fluid intelligence had returned from the labyrinths other machine counterpart. She stripped the wrist inputs. The white socket for her neural connector flashed briefly as the tap came off and she fluffed her hair into shape.
"Carl! I hoped you'd wait for me to finish."
"Looks important."
"Oh, this? She waved away the frames of data. Just some cleanup work. Checking the simulations of docking and transfer, when we take everybody down. There'll be irregularities from random outgassing jets, and the slot boats will have to compensate. I was programming the smarter mechs for the job. We're ready now."
"It'll be a while."
"Well, a few more days... Oh, yes." She suddenly became subdued. "I heard."
"Damn bad luck." His mouth twisted sourly.
"Fatigue, I heard."
"That too."
She reached out and touched his arm tentatively. "There was nothing you could do."
"Probably. Maybe I shouldn't have let her go down that hole right after Kato bought it. Thing like that, shakes you up, screws up your judgment. Makes accidents more likely."
"You weren't senior to her."
"Yeah. but --"
"It's not your fault. If anything, it's the constraints we work under. This timetable --"
"Yeah, I know."
"Come on. I'll buy you some coffee."
"Sleep's what I need."
"No, you need talk. Some people contact."
"Trading arcane jokes with that computer crowd of yours?" He grimaced. "I always come out sounding like a nerd."
She flexed smoothly out of her console couch, taking advantage of the low gravity to curl and unwind in midair. "Not at all!" Something in her sudden, bouncy gaiety lifted his heart. "Blithe spirit, nerd thou never wert."
"Mutilated Shelley! God, that's awful."
"True, though. Come on. First round is on me."
SAUL
To most people the creature would seem hideous. Vaguely globular, specked with yellow and ocher spots and spiky prolusions all around, it had the sort of looks only a particularly indulgent mother could love.
Or a stepfather, Saul Lintz thought.
Millions of the tiny, ugly things darted about in the crowded confines of a single, glinting drop of saline water, beaded by surface tension into a high, arching meniscus on the glass microscope slide.
Saul played the fiber optic controls until his magnifier zoomed in on a single cyanute. "There we are," he muttered softly. "You'll do as a test subject, my lad."
He pressed a trigger and the cytology instrument took over following the tiny microbe, automatically tracking it wherever it swam within its little universe.
The creature was a pulsing mass of tiny, rainbowed cilia that rippled faster than the eye could follow. But Saul knew the thing anyway, to its smallest part. He could imagine every molded, microscopic component, down past where the instrument could not go -- to the level of acids and bases, of sugars and finely balanced lipid barriers.
It darted to and fro amid the thousands of other rough, rippling cells, seeking what it needed to survive.
Not unlike us, Saul thought. Only our search has brought us humans half a billion miles from home.
He rubbed his eyes and bent forward in a habit from long-ago days, when one still occasionally peered through cold glass lenses instead of letting the machines do all the hard work. Relax, Saul told himself. There's no need to crane over the screen.
Even here, in Edmund's slowly spinning gravity wheel, there wasn't enough of a pull to fight against. One had to keep loose, or expend enormous energy just to stay still.
Only half of the screens and holo displays in the biology unit brimmed with light. In a dozen other dark faces Saul's own pale image was reflected... thick eyebrows above a generous nose, and lines that most people, on meeting him, guessed came of a lifetime spent smiling.
Only those who knew Saul well -- and they were few these days -- understood the true source of those craggy indentations; a stoicism that warded off the pain of many, many losses.
The creases stood out now as Saul's blue eyes narrowed in concentration. Delicately touching a hand controller, he brought a hollow sliver of metal down into the little ball of salty water on the microscope slide. On the main holo screen the image of the tiny needle seemed to loom like a javelin as computers guided it toward the chosen test subject.
"Come on, meshugga," Saul muttered as the microbe tried to dart away. "Hold still for Papa."
The cyanute was less than fifty microns across, so small and innocuous that its ancestors had lived peacefully in human bodies for millions of years of quiet symbiosis, until they were discovered only a generation or so ago. For Saul the little creature contained as many wonders as the huge comet commanding such attention outside.
The main vision wall of the lab had been left tuned to a view of Halley, not as the comet looked now -- a slowly ebbing cloud of banked fluorescence surrounding a six-mile chunk of dingy snow -- but as it had been only months before, in all its brief glory, streaking past the sun at half the Earth's orbital distance, its ion tail flapping in the protonic breeze.
They were well matched in beauty -- the titanic, cosmic messenger that was to be their home for most of a century and the microscopic wonder that had made the sojourn possible. Still, it was no surprise that, of the two, Saul concentrated on the tiny living thing drifting in the little glob of water.
After all, he had made it.
Sh'ma Yisrael... he reminded himself. There is but one God -- even though he should place his tools in our hands -- tools to shape life and forge worlds. He is only stepping back to see what we will do with them.
In Saul's line of work he found it wise to remember that, from time to time.
When the needle had approached to within a cell's width of the subject, Saul spoke a word and triggered the test sequence. A small, indistinct puff disturbed the water near the needle's tip, where tiny traces of hydrogen cyanide solution spurted forth.
No more than a scattering of molecules was involved, yet the tiny organism reacted nearly instantly. Its cilia erupted in a sudden spasm of activity and the creature sprang forward....
Forward, toward the needle. It engulfed the tip, throbbing with seeming eagerness.
So far, so good. Saul would have been surprised if it had behaved differently. The cyanutes had been thoroughly tested on Earth before the mission to Halley's Comet was approved. No factor was more important to the success and health of 410 brave men and women than these little creatures.
Confident he was. But life -- even specially gene-tailored life -- had a way of changing when you least expected it. The survival of all those people depended on the tiny "nutes" working as planned. He had led the team that designed them, and he did not intend to allow any failures. There were more than enough ghosts already in his life. Miriam, the children, the land and people of his youth... and, of course, Simon Percell.
Poor Simon. All too well he recalled how one mistake had ruined his friend's life and nearly everything he had worked to accomplish, Keep reminding me, Simon. Keep reminding me of the dangers of playing God.
All the HCN was gone now, according to the displays, sucked up by the eager organism. Saul nodded in satisfaction. Every human being on this mission had millions of cyanutes living in his or her bloodstream and in the little alveoli air sacs that made up their lungs. This sample, taken at random from one of the crew, had just demonstrated that it would do its main job -- sop up any trace of deadly, dissolved cyanide gas before the stuff could get near its host's red corpuscles. Another puff of dissolved gas proved its ability to gobble carbon monoxide before that chemical could bind to human hemoglobin.
Saul touched off the next stage in the test. Minute traces of a new compound swirled into the saline bubble. This time the little microbe on the screen quickly withdrew from the needle, curling almost as if it had been stung. Cyanide and CO were fresh grazing to this creature, but human tissue factors appeared to be a definite no-no.
Again, good news. The second test showed that the cyanute was totally disinclined to look on human cells as meat.
So much for the basics. There were countless other things to check. Saul mentally ran down a list as he triggered the sequencer to begin the automatic phase of the test program.
... Self-limiting reproduction, benign acceptance by the human immune system, pH sensitivity, a voracious appetite for other potential cometary toxins...
It wasn't so much a catalog of attributes as a litany of challenges met and conquered. Saul couldn't help feeling proud of his small team back on Earth, which had had to overcome prejudice, bureaucracy, and undisguised superstition to do this work. In the end, though, they had created a wonder -- a new human symbiont.
Cyanutes would be a permanent, benign part of every man and woman on the crew for the rest of their lives... and perhaps, he dared imagine, a part of the human animal from now on, like the intestinal flora that had always helped him digest his food and the mitochondria within his cells that burned sugars for him, converting them into usable energy.
"Who can compare with thee, oh Lord..." he whispered wryly, teasing himself for his ineradicable corner of hubris. Saul had long ago concluded that he and God would have to be patient with each other. Perhaps the universe was not conveniently set up for either of them.
He watched the test results unfold on the screen -- all nominal, nearly perfect -- until a soft squeak announced the opening of the bio-lab portal behind him.
Continue reading sample 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9, or purchase Heart of the Comet.
The Real Culture War
